On that cold morning in October I came away from that old room filled with books and papers with this strange tall person walking beside me who asked softly and slowly won’t you come and have coffee. I was scarcely able to say thank you I’d like to, but I was smiling so pleasantly willing to please.
You Murdered My Cat
I put all my little trunks and things strewn in the hall. A gobble of little rooms where I came cheaply to live in peace. I grew flowers of a geranium kind in my window box. And hung streamers all colored to flutter away the birds. My Sunday stew was a cloud of wonderful smells. Let them out one by one. A cosy comfort in the sky. Because I thought these neighbours would love me more.
And in the April of the year I bought a cat. Little bumbling tender ball of life. I paid a pound and called him Scratchy. And months went by till he knew me by my smile. And tender steak I sacrificed for his own red joy. He got big, wide and strong. Some cat. And met me every six, all seasons, at the door. A nice little whine all for me. Two globes in his head that glowed my own happiness.
Scratchy was a wilful cat. I wasn’t blinded by that soft, blue fur and cocked sad head looking at my own. Scratchy had his mischief, as what cat hasn’t. Running with tail straight up and straight up the furniture. I didn’t mind the few scars streaked on the odd antique. After all, who would want an old sourpuss cat. He had his faults, and as I say, what cat hasn’t.
And I never knew he was musical. Until once his ears sat up as I piped out a little tune on my recorder. Even sold my plastic one for real wood. I could tell he appreciated the change. He liked the melodies of the Old South. My specialty. And I know no one will believe it, because he would do it only for me, but Scratchy could get up on his hind legs and dance like a real cat. Only thing ever frightened him was the big pipe I made the foghorn noise with. Some cruel thing came out in me every now and then and made me want to make him cringe, back up with a real tiger snarl, and spit right’ cross the room. Almost felt I was in the jungle fighting it out for my life. He knew I was only kidding. And we respected each other for what we were. I was doing accountancy at the time.
But that Easter, when all the trees were greening and Scratchy raced in shrubbery as I tried to lead him through the park, was his last. You somehow know the cat hater. They have a look they wear right across the eyes. Spill water on a defenceless animal’s head and say it’s an accident. And they lived the other side of the garden. Hear them grinding in and out at all hours in fast cars. Type put their own mothers in institutions. Blaring radio and all the rest. I was never deceived in the beginning by that sweet smile and how’s little Scratchy today. They hated Scratchy. Said he dug up the gladioli and pretty stunted efforts they were, anyway. And they said he did other things as well. Look what he’s done. I said look here. They said look there. I know my own cat and he would never do a thing like that. I raised him from a kitten. And then there were threats.
You just touch Scratchy and I’ll report it to the police. No one’s touching your dear little Scratchy, wretched revolting thing. I could have killed them publicly right then and there and be pleased to hang for it.
I kept Scratchy in after that. Rather than expose him to their malingering hands. I’m not one for drawing definite distinctions, but I think if a person doesn’t like animals there’s something wrong. Dumb things who depend upon our indulgence and love. Let me watch someone’s behaviour for five minutes with a dumb animal and I’ll tell you what he’s like.
I had got Scratchy his new basket for Christmas and made it all soft and warm with a Manx rug. He went to it each night and I left the garden window open just to give him that little freedom. And that night I was fast asleep. I dreamt I was driving a motor scooter in Lapland. Across barren wastes with no end in sight. And that a great black bear behind a mountain, and bigger, peeked out and growled and the whole world shook. I was awake in an instant. I heard the door slam across the yard. A slaughter sound. I ran to Scratchy’s bed. It was still warm and he was gone. I whistled from the window. But a cold hand touched my heart. I saw their basement light go off.
And in the morning I went out and stood there in the sunshine. A back garden in despair. If any of them were looking out of the windows they knew what I was thinking. I went straight to the police.
Meet My Maker
I set out one summer singing. To meet my Maker. He lived on a hill with lawns around and buttercups sprinkled in the green. I said I’ll climb your hill and knock on your door, look in your windows and see what I saw. He came out in a pair of blue jeans with a pipe and said hi, when did you die.
I told him yesterday about noon. They all stood around for my doom. Even Sidney in his sun glasses and Flora just out of her red sports car. They looked at me and said he’s gone for a ride and that’s all I heard when I died.
And Maker said come in and sit down. He said sherry. I said pale please and dry. Now tell me young man how was your trip, were some of the stops called despair and did you see the town called sad. Or did you detour through laugh. Maker I’ll tell you the truth I stayed too long in the metropolis called money which I found to be sunny, a city of aspic, tinkle and titters where I bought at the bottom and sold at the top.
But son surely you didn’t stay. Maker I did and never left till my dying day. I lived way up in the sky with a terrace where I sang my song:
Every tulip
Is a julep
And all the mint
Is meant for me.
And Sidney and Flora came and said why don’t we have some fun and go up to Vermont for a barbecue. And all night we drove through the beer cans along the road. I sat looking out between the trees and at others racing along and I thought I’m weak and want to belong. To clubs and leisure life and breathe only imported air. But Flora said I was the sensitive type who looked well with a pipe and could afford to be poor if I wanted or even maybe something real special so that they’d all be glad to know me later on. But I said no I want to be loved for my money and nothing else will do. So off we went to Vermont for the barbecue.
Out by the lake we lit a fire, spread out the marshmallow and steak. And Maker this is why I never had a chance to repent. I just thought I’d go for a swim and look up at the stars and then sat around and got a chill and later I knew I was ill. So I said before I was dead take me back to the city of money fast and see how much they charge to get out of this. And they came and said buddy you’re on your way to the next town and this here train can’t turn around. So I said where’s the ticket taker maybe he personally knows my Maker because I have a few things he can buy at the bottom. But they said there is no ticket taker because this ride’s free.
So Maker I just said gee and as you can see I never had courage to give up the salmon and riesling or the picnics at Newport but stayed at my club for showers and grub and could never get enough. Son, cheer up, I know how you feel, but let me tell you we have some fine vintages here as well as delectable veal. And oceans of time and beef in its prime. So relax and watch the sun shine. But Maker how can you welcome me from that land down there when I’ve never been kind or felt any despair. Son, I can see you never meant any harm, another helping of the peaches and cream is no need for alarm.
But Maker, what about Sidney and Flora. Son, come over, you can see them from here. Wow, Maker, can you see all this. Son, behind every and any blind. But Sidney’s got my cigarette lighter and Flora my flat, why those cheapskates, I’ll never forgive them for that. Easy son, that’s what you were like before you got up here. But Sidney’s playing my gramophone and Flora’s taken my Ming horse. Son, next time leave nothing behind and you’ll feel no remorse.
Well, Maker, what do we do now. Son, it’s time for a swim and workout in the gym and after a good scrub I’ll take you to a nightclub. But Maker I can’t see how we so readily agree, this is even better than it was down there and it’s free. Son, look me in the eye and see what you see. Whoa, Maker, you’re me.
Gustav G
The purple house w
ith the peeling paint was in Gardenia Road in a western district of London. Five minutes walk beyond the social pale. It stood some yards back from the road with a front garden neither neat nor mussed. The windows gleamed. And inside all smelled of lavender wax and the floor boards creaked.
It was October, the month before the fogs which clung to this flat area and the year before had killed prize cattle at an exhibition up the road. After his wife left him, Gustav had come here to live with another woman called Queenie and brought his two dark haired daughters. Across the road was a club for Australians who reveled late at night singing songs of Down Under and emerging in the wee hours to crank their vintage cars.
Gustav G was tall, light brown haired, and an ex Polish Cavalry officer. With drink taken, his manner often insisted upon his impeccability. Which his English wife had found painful. At these times, Gustav rummaged in the wardrobe, fetching out from the moth balls his riding breeches and boots to stomp indignantly into the onion reek of the kitchen adjusting his insignia and rapping his crop against his thigh.
“I am a true Pole.”
His English wife, pressing back her hanging hair, turned toward the onions and sliced on. Gustav retreated to the bedroom where he stood in front of the full length mirror, eyes swelling with tears. And later his wife packed up and left.
Gustav met Queenie during three bereft alcoholic days and wove her into his life and she found them the flat of three rooms in the purple house. With one narrow bed for his two daughters. And mornings as the traffic increased on the road outside, Gustav pulled back the covers in the front room and reached for cotton wool and Eau de Vie de Lavande with which he wiped cheeks and brow and cleaned his awaking nostrils. Behind the house was a railway siding and coal yard and the black dust seeped up between the floor boards under the carpets.
Queenie went out to work each morning as a secretary in a factory making nurses’ uniforms. Taking a tortuous trip through the fashionable parts of London to disappear at the other end beyond a bleak door in a bleak wall of Camden Town. Often she brought home lengths of white cloth for dusters. Gustav with some clever folding sported these as hankies in the breast pocket of his blazer. When many a lonely afternoon between whiles, he stood stiffly and sadly clutching a pint of beer in the basement shadows of an airless drinking club.
Weekdays while he waited for a great pot of porridge oats to cook, Gustav plunged his two daughters into the tub for a wash. Sometimes retreating from the wild splashing to pop on a threadbare silk shirt, the fortunate color of his skin. And with gay cravat, black sword stick, grey flannel trousers and sports coat, he cut a figure and struck several early morning poses in the doorway. Later standing in one final attitude as his daughters wolfed through the porridge.
At ten to nine he led them down the stairs and at the bottom in a blood tinted light, he made some comments he knew would seep under the landlady’s door.
“Amanda and Laurinda, you must pay strict instructions to your riding master, straight back, remember.”
These daughters with their long dark tresses, standing, waiting for Gustav to open the door.
“O daddy, please shut up.”
Gustav stomping sword stick, the stick leaving the sword as he stood in the hallway, waving the glistening blade.
“Do not speak in that fashion. One day you will listen. When I die, you will listen.”
“Daddy we know you’ll die, but we’re late, will you please give over.”
And the taxi passing in the road was flagged down with Gustav’s stick. A clipped command to the driver as he held the door open.
“The Lycée, please, haste.”
Gustav leaning back in the leather comfort. Amanda sitting facing this father.
“Daddy Queenie is going to be furious.”
“I will not have you riding on buses.”
“You’re wasting the money Queenie slaves for, you know we can’t afford a taxi.”
In silence they reached that alley with the smooth accents, mothers, chauffeurs, intellectuals. Gustav led Amanda and Laurinda. He held his chin high and blinked his lids. He sniffed frequently with his nose. And flicked a finger in the corner of his eye. He stood by the doorway of the yard as Amanda took Laurinda by the hand and they fled across the bright concrete into school.
With an audible click of heel, Gustav turned and marched out the alley into the thriving life of South Kensington. He looked in the window of the harp shop and hummed a Hungarian Rhapsody. He waited loftily to cross on the black and white safety stripes, a girl in a gay white sports car stopping and he gave her a little bow and she grimaced and nearly killed him as she roared past. Gustav took her license on yesterday’s bus ticket, the pencil constantly going through the cheap paper until it was a series of holes and he threw it away.
In his pocket he jingled six and sixpence, gritting his teeth at the expense of the taxi ride. Measuring in his mind his second breakfast in the Continental coffee house just past the station. Where collected the former members of deposed European governments and there was a warmth of food and greetings. Gustav took a seat at the windows and reaching out touched the leaves of a prospering aspidistra. Marianna, the waitress, smiled and said, “Good morning sir.”
“Good morning Marianna. I would like coffee with fresh cream and apple strudel. And how are you today Marianna.”
“Not good. And you.”
“Not good.”
Out the window frosty air and curled brown leaves scraping across the shadows of trees. The young students passing on their way to learn of art and some science at the colleges up the road. The girls wore hair long and careless. Gustav saw Amanda and Laurinda growing into these assured nubile young women floating by. But, my God, where was the money to come from and even a dignified place to live. There might never be a good address again. But the apple strudel was fine today. Just as it was fine yesterday and the day before. The juice had a light sweetness and the pastry melted in the mouth. There were young apples in Poland. And woods and forests around Malkinia some miles from the river Bug in the province of Warsaw.
His English wife had not been unpleasant. She never questioned his background or military rank or honours. She would, as she sliced through the onion, sigh, and say yes, how nice, I heard you, that was nice, I’m glad you loved the peasants on your estates and cried and danced with them. And how one day, the last day, he found his hands reaching for the pots, the pans and how they seemed to go through the windows, glass showering down, a great mirage of curtains, sash cord, and putty. Later feeling hands leading him by the arms. Blue uniforms ushering him to a seat in the back of a dark van. And a woman with gaudy mouth smiling at him. “What did they get you for, dearie.” They brought water to the cell whenever he requested and led him slowly out for natural acts whenever he asked. And further in the dismal morning of that last day they let him free with a yellow slip of paper to make his way to the dock where the judge said it’s sad to see a man of your background behaving in this fashion, pay ten pounds.
The incident received a column in the Times, and with a careful fourpence Gustav bought this paper. Sitting, rustling it high in front of his face and clearing his throat, a pearl pin stuck in the silk around his neck and he had lain for three recuperative days between white sheets and brown blankets, a bowl of water, spiced with lemon juice and vinegar, on his bedside chair. He dipped a towel and laid it across his brow and eyes.
And now in this month of October there were western moist winds, the first smells of smoke at evening. With a place to live there was a quiet respectability in his life. And although it was lonely London, it was a city of freedom to hang or gas yourself if you so wished but please leave a note for the milkman to stop the milk and the news agents to stop the papers. I am Gustav G a foreigner. And if I let taxis run over me till Christmas in the middle of the road, they would pass by tapping their umbrellas, poor chap, he’s trying to do himself in.
Queenie left instructions pinned outside the food cupboard. Sweep
. Wipe. Wash. He felt she watched him as he took helpings of what he fancied. In his marriage he always got the biggest chop. Women who say they love you covet the choicest morsels for themselves. Then try to make you a mat. Trampling your dignity with the household chores. Who tell you to look at the employment board of the meat pie factory. And then call you a sneaky devil because you sit and enjoy an hour’s sunshine in the Asian garden of the Victoria and Albert Museum. Where the fountain plays mid the lead sphinxes and the dark green leaves of the cherry trees stir.
Weeks quietly by in the purple house. Gustav repressing his thirst for avocados for the sake of financial peace. There was the odd opera and Sunday evening concert at the Festival Hall where they held hands and squeezed during the passionate passages, later to walk out on the deck strung with stanchions over the river and watch the squat tankers plow dark ways on the ebbing tide. Later to stroll a long way home by the fairy lights of Battersea and the water’s deep sweet smell.
Queenie had ridden to the hounds in the west of Ireland. And talked as Gustav talked about his cavalry days. She said some blustering pinched type once sounded the horn and upon the last soulful note promptly pitched face first in some cow softened mud. Gustav to his feet, slightly in his cups, declaring Queenie an equestrian gossip and the Irish, peasant pigs. Queenie, breasts heaving, hands straight down at her sides, eyes blazing, letting go with convent bred epithets. And next day Gustav found his riding boots gone. To discover them one week later in the window of a gentlemen’s clothier near the Portobello market. Paper begonias in a Japanese vase, the glistening toes of his boots facing a water color picture of the harbor at Lyme Regis.
Meet My Maker the Mad Molecule Page 13